


Gold-Cleaver

by elwinfortuna



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Father/Son Incest, Love Confessions, Love Letters, M/M, Parent/Child Incest, Seduction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:35:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26273449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elwinfortuna/pseuds/elwinfortuna
Summary: Maglor seduces Fëanor with letters.
Relationships: Fëanor | Curufinwë/Maglor | Makalaurë
Comments: 3
Kudos: 30
Collections: RelationShipping 2020





	Gold-Cleaver

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tehhumi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tehhumi/gifts).



Macalaurë seduces his father not with song, but with words, carefully weighed and planned, beautifully written, full of both emotion and logic in an irresistible cocktail. 

Fëanáro finds the first letter in his pack when he is away on a journey to look for new sources of silver in the hills south of Tirion. He has chosen this time to go by himself, as Maitimo and Nerdanel are away on a visit to Nerdanel's family, along with young Tyelcormo and baby Carnistir. Macalaurë, ever reclusive when he was not performing, had made some vague noises about working on new songs, following a period of private mentorship with Elemmírë and some performances in Tirion.

It's the evening of the second day away from home when he finds the letter tucked away in an obscure corner of his bag. It would have been easy to overlook it for days, and if he had not been searching for his flintstone, which had slipped deep into the bag, he might have missed it entirely. 

It is written in a keen, fair hand, folded over twice, and slightly wrinkled from being inside his pack for over a day. Curiously, Fëanáro unfolds it, settling back the silver light of Telperion to read it, forgetting to light a fire as he had intended. 

_Dearest father_ , it reads, and Fëanáro at once realises who it is from, _I do not trust myself to say these words to your face. If performance is everything, then I fear my performance may fail when I look into your eyes and try to tell you what I instead have chosen to write to you here in the letters you made._

_Those words are simply these: you are my guiding star, my light before all lights, the dream I turn to in the fever´d nights when longing and desire mingle hopelessly in my breast. I love you more than law or custom, more than my very self, more than the air I breathe or the music that rings through my heart._

_I love without hope, for I fear that even your well-known capacity for defying convention and setting custom at naught may balk at embracing your son as a lover. But this I tell you: I shall love eternally where I do love. My eyes kindle at the sight of your face, and my body awakens with longing when I see you._

_My heart tells me to stay close to you, in whatever way I may. Custom would say that children and parents should withdraw from each other as the child comes of age, but I see no signs of that in Maitimo, nor do I desire it for myself. Reason instructs me to stay by your side, for I still need you, and you still need me._

_It may forever remain just a dream of mine, one I keep close to my heart, but if one day I might hold you not as a son but as a lover, I think my heart would burst from joy. Your own Káno, now and ever._

The letter falls from Fëanáro's hand into the grass as he looks out and away past the trees, back toward Tirion where his Kanafinwë waits. He can almost feel his son's nervousness from here, can almost hear the stress in the music, faint and far, that is played by unseen fingers and downcast eyes. 

He catches up the letter and brings it to his lips, before folding it and concealing it inside his clothing, over his heart. In the next village he comes to, three days later, he buys paper and borrows a pen and inkwell. That night, he sits at the desk in his allotted room, his heart pounding, breath coming quick at the images spilling into his mind.

 _My dearest Káno,_ he begins, and, uncharacteristically, pauses, his pen held for long moments suspended over the paper.

* * *

Macalaurë discovers the letter lying on his desk the day after an exhausting performance at the palace in Tirion. He'd returned home late, declining his grandfather's offer of a bed in the palace, and collapsed at once into bed, not even bothering to take his hair out of its fussy updo. As a result, his head is pounding, and his throat sore. He does not want to even be awake, but the letter, lying innocuously on the desk, takes the breath from his body and makes his heart race. 

He forces himself to remove the ties from his hair first, and then he combs it out until it is smooth and shining again. Then he takes a long drink of cool water from the carafe beside his bed. Not until his headache is beginning to recede does he take the letter, and with shaking fingers, unfolds it, dropping down on the bed and reading with his face hidden against his hand. 

Fëanáro's words strike like lightning through his brain, playing over his nerves with half-fevered sparks. Macalaurë's breath speeds up as he reads them through, once, and then more slowly, again. 

_My dearest Káno,_ " Fëanáro writes, _you value yourself too low when you write 'without hope,' for you deserve far more than to love in vain with no expectation of return. You are a star and a light in yourself, and it would be true folly to hear a confession like the one you have given me and, in following law, convention, or hidebound custom, set it aside. That would be a cold awakening to the sweet dream your words conjure, oh finest bard of the Noldor!_

_So allow yourself the luxury of hope, the time to contemplate it in peace, and the words to woo your beloved. Write to me of your heart, tell me all. What would you have of me, and what would you do? Give me a taste of what would come, if you had all your desires, and I will answer it as your beloved, Fëanáro._

* * *

Macalaurë’s second letter catches up to him when he stops in at a small village near a possible source of silver. It is in the high mountains, and Fëanáro reels at the sight of his name in the beloved handwriting, dizzy with anticipation. Over the last few nights his dreams have had his Káno’s voice in them calling his name, and he has wakened hard and wanting.

He takes the letter back to his campsite, and slowly forces himself to light a fire, to eat, to rest, before taking a lamp, settling down inside his blankets, already half-hard with hope and desire, one hand dipping beneath the waistband of his leggings as he reads, to coil about his cock and leisurely stroke himself. 

“ _Dearest father_ ,” the letter reads, “ _I would take you apart in a thousand different ways if I might be permitted to. If you would let my hands stroke down your body, if I could kiss you and let my tongue slide into your mouth, if my cock could be pressed close to yours, if I could take you inside myself, or — dream of all dreams — be inside of you, then I would make your body sing with ecstasy. Your voice spilling out cries of need would be my chorus, and thrust and counterthrust would be my rhythm._ ”

Fëanáro pauses to stroke himself. Already his cock is weeping pre-come. He eagerly reads on, continuing to touch himself, and gasps aloud when he reads the next words. 

“ _Are you at this very moment thinking of me with your hand on your cock? If I were with you, there in the wilderness, I would have your cock down my throat. I would be naked before you, kneeling on the grass, my hair spilling down my back, glancing up at you with eyes full of desire as I take you so deep. I want you to come down my throat, father. I want to make you cry out my name — the fulfilment of an ecstatic dream we both long for._

__

__

_And what would you have of me? I long to fulfil your deepest, filthiest desires. I will gladly do anything you want, even if it be something no one has ever done before. I want to be yours, always, your Káno._ ”

With a sobbing cry, Fëanáro comes, spilling over his hand, his Káno’s words in his hand, his Káno’s images in his mind. He sleeps that night with the letter under his pillow, and in the morning, suspends his search to scribble a hasty note to be dropped off when he goes back to the village. 

“ _Dearest Káno_ ,” it reads, “ _I can no longer bear to be without you. Set your music aside and join me here, and I will teach you the language of the body and the rhythm of desire, until you are satisfied completely by your beloved, Fëanáro._ ”

* * *

When Macalaurë receives the note from his father, the words of the song he was working on go clean out of his mind as if they had never existed. He sets his flute down, leaves his papers scattered over his bed, throws some random clothing and food into a pack, and within twenty minutes is walking out the front door, heading south to that tiny village in the mountains. 

He had enough presence of mind to slip a bottle of oil into his pack before leaving, and to tell the servants, now alone in the house, that he was going to join his father and would return in some weeks. The servants, long used to the wandering ways of the High Prince’s family, were in no way taken aback, and clearly planned to use the fact that all the family was away to indulge in their own crafts and hobbies in the many workrooms and forges that Fëanáro’s home boasted. 

It takes him about three days to reach that village. It would normally take quite a bit longer on foot alone, but Macalaurë is lucky: a few hours into the journey, he meets a devotee of his work who is eager to do anything he can for the young musician, and offers him the loan of a horse, who will happily find her own way home once Macalaurë no longer needs her. 

Macalaurë, like all his people, can ride without saddle or bridle, and accepts gladly, covering the distance in well less than half the time Fëanáro took to walk it. Once arrived, he makes sure the horse is well-cared for before telling her that she can head home, then heads into the village. 

He asks the village shopkeeper for news of his father. 

“He was in here just yesterday,” she replies eagerly. “Said he was heading up into the mountains again after silver, but then he said something odd, under his breath. Mentioned that it was gold more on his mind at the minute. But there’s no gold in the area, my Prince.” 

Macalaurë smiles genially at her. “My father’s mind is always full of new and glorious ideas. And if I want to catch up with him, I should head off into the mountains myself. He knows I’m coming, though I fancy he did not expect to see me so soon, and I’d like to surprise him.” 

The shopkeeper smiles back and gives him a small ginger cake for nothing. He finishes up his purchases of a loaf of bread, along with some dried meat and nuts, and heads off into the high mountains beyond the village. 

Fëanáro is not one to mask his presence or to be particularly subtle, but Macalaurë likes the idea of surprising his father so much that he’s particularly careful to follow him without leaving a trace of his own presence. Three hours’ walk out of the village, just as the light is fading from gold to silver, Macalaurë comes upon him, in a little sheltered dell. For a moment, he just stands there, watching his father tend the little fire he’s built, before he lets his pack slide to the ground and moves just slightly to catch his attention. 

Fëanáro turns, dropping the stick he had been using to poke the fire, and runs to him, arms wide open. “My own, my beloved,” he says breathlessly, and Macalaurë wraps him up in a crushing embrace. 

Fëanáro’s libido is legendary. Macalaurë’s parents have always had an open marriage; he can recall their various lovers drifting in and out of their house from his earliest childhood. But it is something else to have all that libido and Fëanáro’s diamond-hot desire focused on him alone. He finds to his surprise that Fëanáro is hard against his hip and the feel of it sparks his own lust. He meets Fëanáro’s lips in a hard hot kiss, pouring all of his long-held passion into it, and Fëanáro _melts_ against him, yields to him in the sweetest sort of surrender. 

Fëanáro’s bedroll is just a few feet away under the trees but Macalaurë finds that he cannot move even that distance. His hands are acting of their own accord, stripping the clothes from them both in a desperate effort to get more of Fëanáro’s skin on his. His father, for his part, is responding just as eagerly, following his lead but joining in with a will to get them both naked. 

Once they are both undressed, Macalaurë gently pushes his father down onto a pile of their discarded clothing, laid out on the soft green grass. They will definitely need to wash at least his tunic once this passes, but he can’t think about laundry just now. Frantic kiss follows kiss, and Macalaurë’s hands stroke down his father’s torso. He pinches his nipples just to hear him moan, then softly licks at them, taking them in his mouth, soothing the sore flesh. 

Moving downward, he finally reaches Fëanáro’s cock, and with a pause to appreciate its beauty and perfect proportions, takes it into his mouth. Fëanáro cries out at this, sliding his hands into Macalaurë’s hair, and Macalaurë revels in the feel of his father subtly directing him to lick and suck exactly how he wants to be licked and sucked. 

When Fëanáro comes, it is with eyes fluttering shut and a soft gasp. Macalaurë feels the pulse of his body, tastes his seed, swallows it, takes the essence of Fëanáro truly into himself, and in that moment feels utter contentment, even though he is yet hard and wanting. 

Before long, though, Fëanáro’s eyes open again, and they are sparkling like diamonds with mischief and pleasure. “Káno, my Káno,” he says. “You named your deepest desire to me.” Macalaurë nods, almost embarrassed by it. “Would you have me?” 

“Yes,” Macalaurë says, all in a rush. “Yes, I would.” He fumbles in his pack for the oil he brought.

Fëanáro instructs him, slow and patient, for all the world like he was in a forge talking about working with hot metal, how to open him up with his fingers. At one point, he reaches down to demonstrate, and both of their fingers are inside him, hot and slick. Fëanáro gives him a look that leaves him scorching with desire, and pronounces himself ready. 

“Father,” Macalaurë says, low and musical, as he enters Fëanáro. “Father, how I love you.” 

“How I love you,” Fëanáro responds. He is hard again, and curves an oily hand around himself, stroking slow, in time with the way Macalaurë is sinking into him. 

Macalaurë is lost in the sensation: hot, smooth bliss around his cock, the way Fëanáro twitches and moves and slowly wriggles trying to impale himself further. It isn’t long before he is all the way inside, and it feels so good that Macalaurë pulls out, causing a frustrated groan from Fëanáro, and pushes back in with a long sigh of pleasure. 

Fëanáro hooks his legs around Macalaurë’s waist, holding him close, and Macalaurë lowers himself down to kiss Fëanáro. He thrusts once, and it feels so earth-shatteringly good that he does it again and before long is pounding his father into the ground as though his cock was a hammer and Fëanáro the metal he wished to shape. 

Fëanáro smiles up at him as he loses himself in sensation, guiding him without words. Macalaurë’s mind begins to touch his father’s, feeling just what Fëanáro needs and wants, feeling the pleasure doubling back upon itself until ecstasy is too small a word for what he feels. 

When he comes with a shout, buried so far in Fëanáro it’s like they have become one, melded and joined together in mind and body, it is like a fire leaping up, raging on and on. It is a fractal of pleasure, ever deepening, ever widening, it is soaring through the air without wings, it is more desired than the applause of crowds, more ecstatic than a new song. Macalaurë is overwhelmed, and with his last twitching spark of sensation, feels Fëanáro’s hands on his head, gently bringing him down to hold him close. 

He does not know how long it’s been when he returns to himself, but he is still buried within Fëanáro, though his muscles are beginning to grow stiff. The evidence of his father’s release is tacky against his stomach. Fëanáro looks up at him, wide-eyed and pleased. 

“I came here for silver,” he says softly, petting Macalaurë’s hair, “but it was gold I craved to cleave me, and now I am satisfied.”


End file.
